


Atypical Maintenance

by bitsby, notmadderred



Series: Reverse Harem Simmons [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Jealousy, M/M, Shitty Puns, workout memes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 00:36:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21290810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitsby/pseuds/bitsby, https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmadderred/pseuds/notmadderred
Summary: Wash leads Simmons through some rehabilitation exercises. Things... get out of hand.
Relationships: Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons, Dick Simmons/Agent Washington, simmington
Series: Reverse Harem Simmons [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1443322
Comments: 20
Kudos: 62





	Atypical Maintenance

It was supposed to be a simple investigative search in what was thought to be a deserted Charon mining facility. Go in, check for abandoned arsenal or other supplies, throw out some future cubes, bring it back to Armonia. Captain Dick Simmons and the team he was leading didn't expect a bunch of Charon goons to ambush them before even getting a single foot inside. Although the space pirates' alien-integrated weapons were disabled, and despite Kimball's reasoning that, "they have nothing more than standard UNSC weaponry," bullets still fucking hurt. Especially if said bullets were lodged into the main joint connecting your cybernetic arm to the rest of your body.

So as a result, Simmons was put on medical leave, stuck in a bed the medbay, feeling exhausted yet impatient with the urge to do something-- anything but fucking laze around all day recovering. And he couldn't really do anything but restlessly fiddle around with his helmet in his right hand, considering he was waiting on his other arm to be repaired and reattached. He was also missing his leg, too; Grey advised it would be best to refurbish them simultaneously for easier maintenance in the future. So Simmons was stuck here, biding his time, and it was boring as hell.

On the plus side, hospital rations were generally healthier or better than most of the food they got in the mess hall. Simmons assumed this is why Grif probably showed up for the fifteenth time this week to visit him in his recovery room. It definitely helped to pass the time, considering how little there was to do, and they always ended up talking most of the evening.

"Dude, if Grey and Sarge are the ones upgrading your arm, you know it's gonna have some crazy shit in it. Like, uh, like a heat ray!" Grif settled on the edge of his bed, reaching over Simmons periodically to pluck some uneaten pieces of apple off of a small tray. "That'd be awesome-- then you can microwave MREs for us in our rooms so I don't ever have to leave." He popped another slice into his mouth.

"I'll fill out the request form and send it up to Grey." Simmons rolled his eyes. "Shouldn't you be training with Wash right now?" he asked incredulously.

"'Should' implies a moral obligation, Simmons; don't impose your virtues on me. Also, I don't remember where the training room is. Haven't been there recently."

Simmons snorted. He doesn't think he's ever seen Grif in the training room ever, let alone recently.

"Maybe," Grif started, giving Simmons a sidelong glance, "... Grey should throw in a heat sensor while she's at it, so you don't get ambushed like an idiot again." Regardless of the insult, Grif's tone softened, which flustered Simmons for some reason.

As Simmons was about to object, someone knocked on the door twice and promptly opened it.

Wash entered the room, fully armored, taking his helmet off to fix Grif with an austere expression.

"Captain Grif. I thought you might be here." He did not sound amused.

"Oh, shit. Welp, nice talkin' to ya, gotta run--" Grif grabbed a snack bar from Simmons' tray before rushing to make a break for it. Wash allowed him to barely reach the door before clotheslining him.

"Ow-- fuck, dude--!"

"The only running you'll be doing is the six extra laps that the rest of your squad is currently making up for you."

"God, you're such a dick," Grif groaned under his breath, pushing himself off the ground.

"Seven laps. Training room, now," Wash commanded. Before Grif could receive anymore effort-related punishment, he hastily slipped past the Freelancer, muttering to himself.

Wash paused for a moment after the door closed behind him. He hesitantly walked forward to replace Grif's post at the edge of Simmons' bed.

"... How are you feeling?"

Simmons blinked. Wash was compassionate, but he usually displayed that trait in the form of extra drills and supplementary militaristic shouts of encouragement. This was new, this warmth to his normally stern tone. Then again, Simmons had never spent any time alone with Wash that he could remember, so maybe it wasn't uncommon.

"I've been better." Simmons grimaced. Wash's apologetic smile upturned into a troubled frown. Simmons felt a heat rise up his neck alongside the urge to backpedal and inform Wash that he was fine and why did it make him feel so ruffled that Wash seemed to be concerned about his well-being?

"But uh, at least the food's good here, right?" he said, forcibly lightening his tone. "It would be nice if I could get my other leg back soon. Doing laps is gonna be difficult if I have to hop around like I'm on a goddamn pogo stick."

Wash let out a stifled laugh. "I bet." He paused, contemplating something momentarily.

"Guess you'll just have to take it... one step at a time," he finished. He let a smirk form as he glanced at Simmons, seemingly proud of his horrible pun.

Simmons snorted in amusement. And people called him a nerd. Although, that was pretty funny, so what did that say about his own sense of humor? And he never realized Wash had a nice smile until now... the guy should really learn to loosen up more, it suited him-- objectively speaking, of course.

"Well, I have some good news for you. I bumped into Grey on the way here. She said they're almost finished with your parts. They should be ready in a couple of hours."

"Fuck, finally." Simmons exhaled in relief. "Being cooped up here has been awful. It's like I can feel my muscles deteriorating."

Wash crossed his arms, his eyes focused on Simmons'. "... How about you train with me tomorrow morning?"

Oh God. Dr. Grey advised not push himself too hard, and joining Wash and the others for a "typical" set of drills sounded like pretty much the opposite of what he should be doing to recover, and he really didn't want everyone else to see him stumbling around, I mean he did have to set a good example, being a war hero and all--

The apprehension must have shown on his face because Wash reached out and patted his leg. "I can walk you through some rehabilitation exercises to get you up to speed again."

Something caught in Simmons' throat. He was unsure if it was due to the touch or the suggestion. "What, like, with everyone else watching?"

"In one of the smaller training rooms, just us. They can manage to run drills on their own for a day. Unless you'd rather help Grif with those laps instead," Wash said dryly.

Just them? Well, it would probably be a lot less embarrassing than barely keeping up with the others. Wash was undoubtedly knowledgeable about physical training, albeit a little intense about it. Just as Simmons has never seen Grif in a training room before, he's never seen Wash outside of one.

Simmons nodded hesitantly. "... Alright. And the only help Grif's getting from me is the fact that I'm getting you all to myself."

Wash raised his eyebrows, probably taken aback by how casually that was stated, and Simmons realized how that could definitely be taken the wrong way.

"I mean, uh, taking your time, because, then he'd slack off more without you there, and uh, yeah," Simmons stammered. Solid recovery. Not awkward at all.

\----

The rest of the day passed without event; the occasional nurse checking in on him at odd intervals. They asked him about residual aches and pains, and he answered clinically and absently. His mind was straying, circling back to Wash’s conversation with him. The sentimentality had been nice, if not unexpected. He was still hitting himself for that comment and even worse recovery, but Wash had taken it in stride -- he clearly saw Simmons’ distress and opted to ignore the double-entendre rather than run with it like Tucker would’ve. Instead he just got a reminder that Wash would stop by in the morning.

He’d been looking forward to it. He’d always liked the tight schedule Wash held himself by, but actually training with the man was a bit intimidating, even if it was going to be one-on-one and rehabilitation-based. Then his head would trace back to the gentle touch and kind smile, and intimidation went out the window. 

Still, he hadn’t been expecting to see Wash in the bedside chair when he woke up the next morning.

Simmons froze. Probably not his best habit, going all deer-in-the-headlights when someone unexpected was in his room and close enough to kill him.

Wash’s eyes fluttered open. Half of his lips drew up in a smile. “You’re awake.”

Simmons cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah! Sorry, I-- wasn’t expecting to see you here. When I woke up.”

Perhaps he was seeing things, given the darkness of the room and the fact that he’d only been awake for less than a minute, but he was fairly certain Wash’s cheeks took on a red pallor. “Sorry about that,” Wash said. “Given that you’re recovering, I thought it’d be best if you woke up on your own time.”

Thoughtful.

Simmons didn't say anything. Then he realized he probably should have, because the ensuing silence was awkward as fuck. A quick glance to the counter proved that Grey must have dropped off his leg and arm sometime during the night. Or maybe Wash had brought them in. 

Wash cleared his throat, and Simmons turned back to him in time to see him shift awkwardly in the chair -- to be fair, it was hard not to be awkward when sitting in a small plastic chair whilst wearing full power armor, sans helmet.

“So,” Wash said, voice pitching oddly, “... come here often?”

The words took a full six seconds to process. When they did, a startled snort escaped his throat, and he brought his hand to his mouth to stifle it. The effort was futile, as Wash’s tone and position on the chair did a replay in his head.

He burst out laughing.

The force of it knocked him back, and he moved his hand from his mouth down to the bed to balance himself. Wash had-- had flirted with him. Albeit, jokingly, and probably as retaliation for Simmons’ dumb as fuck comment yesterday. Even still, it was funny. Wash had a sense of humor, which was… perhaps more surprising than it should have been.

Wash’s face contorted into a dorkish grin. “That funny?”

Simmons finally pulled himself together with one final laugh before shooting Wash the most incredulous look he could muster. “I-- just didn't expect that. Uh, from you.”

Wash shrugged, the motion almost robotic. Jesus -- he looked as awkward as Simmons felt. “I happen to be full of surprises."

“Mmm!” Simmons responded, the sound definitely expressing his surprise. He opened his mouth again to comment, but he only managed a flustered, “Uhhh…”

Wash chuckled softly before standing up. “Do you want me to… hm.” His eyes were trained on Simmons’ cyborg parts, but he looked contemplative. 

Simmons swallowed and shook his head, as though that would dislodge embarrassment from his chest. “To what?”

Wash’s eyes flicked to him. He pursed his lips, and his cheeks puffed up slightly. It was kind of cute. “To give you a- a hand?” he finished.

“Oh my fucking God,” said Simmons, and Wash’s face was turning red from holding in his laughter at that overused fucking joke that still somehow sounded new coming from the former Freelancer, “you did not just say that.”

Wash drew down his head a bit, and he looked shy what the fuck. This guy, who could kill him in less than a second with little-to-no effort, had managed to look both cute and shy in the space of five fucking seconds.

Simmons blinked when Wash just continued to look at him, appearing increasingly pleased with his joke. “Yes, Wash. I would like a hand, and maybe a leg, too.”

Wash finally obliged, grabbing the limbs and bringing them over to the bed. “Do you need help reattaching them or--”

Simmons waved him off. “No, I’ve got it-- kinda have years of practice.”

The realization hit him that, somehow, he’d become a lot more comfortable with the other man. Nothing like what he had with Grif, but it was nice. Different.

“Right.” Wash shifted. “Do you want me to… give you some privacy?”

And that quickly, Simmons was embarrassed again. Putting the limbs back on was a bit of an odd endeavor; his leg especially, seeing as it was anchored directly to the bone since there was no residual limb to attach a socket to. Not to mention, he’d need to change into his power armor after. “Uh, yeah. Just while I… yeah.”

“You sound uncertain there.” Wash lifted a brow.

Simmons flushed. “Unless you’re interested in watching me change, too, I’m gonna stick to my answer.”

Wash’s lips twitched. “Right. I’ll…” He pointed at the door in a quick motion before rushing out through it.

Simmons stared at the door for a moment. Maybe this training would be good for him for more than one reason.

Before he could explore that particular line of thought any further, he began reattaching the newly-improved cyborg limbs. They were sleeker and weighed less than previous -- something he’d need to grow accustomed to, but it was an improvement nonetheless. He shifted the hospital gown over his shoulder so he could start manipulating the arm into its joint, struggling a bit longer than usual to get it in. Thankfully, Dr. Grey hadn’t altered the base design for connections much -- if she had, he may have needed that help Wash offered.

He moved onto his leg, slipping it on with more success than he had his arm (and he was pretty sure his cybernetic arm had somehow tightened the response time to be even more accurate. He’d need to ask Grey about its newer and improved features later.). He briefly wondered how Wash would have helped him put it on that leg, where his eyes may have lingered and nope how about we don’t think about that it’s Wash what the fuck like he’s hot and all-- wait since when did Simmons start thinking of Wash as hot oh shit hot and cute he must’ve just been not thinking straight because, uh, hospital. Yes.

Simmons worked his legs over the side of the bed before hopping down, landing a bit unsteady, but nothing too drastic to worry about. He made his way to the closet and worked his way into civvies before putting his power armor on above it all.

After a second, he tucked his helmet under his arm. Wash wasn’t wearing his, so putting his on may be weird. It actually wouldn’t matter, but for some reason he just found himself wanting to leave his face exposed in front of the other man.

Simmons clenched his jaw.

Training. Rehabilitation. He needed to start thinking straight.

He strolled out the door and found Wash leaning on the wall right beside the door. As soon as Simmons appeared, his face lit up. Had Wash always done that? Was he always that happy to see everyone else? How hadn’t Simmons noticed?

“How’re those limbs working out for you?”

“I think I’ll be finding out shortly,” Simmons returned with a smile. “Too soon to tell anything for sure yet.”

Wash nodded, lifting himself from the wall and beginning to lead the way down the hallway. “I can’t imagine what it’s like dealing with that. You seem pretty well-adjusted, though.”

He was… pretty sure that was a compliment. Shit. How did a person respond to compliments? Fuck. He genuinely had no idea. Compliment back?

“Uh, yeah, um, but it’s probably nothing compared to what you went through with Project Freelancer.”

That. Was not a compliment.

He whole-body cringed.

Wash actually reached over and patted his shoulder. He couldn’t feel it through the armor, but the pressure was still there. Wash was… very touchy. “Hey, we’ve both been through quite a bit in our time. Comparing experiences doesn’t mitigate what happened.” He smiled again, something genuine and heartfelt. “You’ve been doing good, Simmons.”

Simmons looked forward, biting the inside of his cheek. “Uh. Thanks,” he said. “You… too?”

Wash chuckled but retracted his hand. “Thanks,” he replied smoothly.

They made a turn down another hallway, a couple of soldiers waving at them on their way. Simmons waved back while simultaneously shifting his body to be slightly behind Wash, as he’d so often done with Grif.

Wash immediately put a hand against his back and shoved him forward enough for them to once again match strides.

Simmons grumbled under his breath something incoherent even to him. Then he remembered that this was Wash he was walking next to, and to shut the fuck up because he only pulled that kind of shit with Grif and maybe sometimes Tucker but never a fucking Freelancer oh fuck--

“Right in here,” said Wash, gesturing toward a metal door.

Simmons nodded silently, reaching for the handle with his cybernetic arm. The best way to get used to something was practice, and--

He fucking. Missed. 

This was obviously unprecedented. He’d already been walking forward as though the door would move open.

Needless to say, Simmons walked face-first into that door.

His forehead slammed against it with an audible thunk, and he immediately fell back, reeling mostly from the surprise rather than any actual pain.

Wash’s hands caught him, steadying him back on his feet.

Simmons blinked, clearing the stars from his vision. When he could see clearly, Wash was in front of him, concern evident on his features. He brought one of his hands to Simmons’ face, fingers caressing near where the bruise would inevitably form. For several moments, Wash simply hovered there, eyebrows drawn downward in concern.

“Are you okay? That looked pretty painful.”

Simmons gave Wash a wry smile, eyes lingering perhaps a bit too long on the scar that split through his left brow.

“Neither pretty nor painful,” he replied. “Just, uh. Embarrassing.”

Wash drew his thumb along Simmons’ temple. Simmons was acutely aware that his other hand was still gripping his shoulder, holding him still. “We all have our moments.” Finally, he pulled his hand back, and Simmons almost leaned forward to try to keep the contact. “Did I ever tell you about the time I got a grappling hook stuck to my balls?”

Simmons narrowed his eyes. “You’re… joking.”

Wash took a breath before releasing it slowly. “Unfortunately, I am not.” Then he reached past Simmons, pulling down the handle before pushing open the door. “At least you have the excuse of a new arm.” He angled his head at the doorway. 

Simmons took that as his cue to go inside.

The space was even smaller than he imagined and fairly sparse aside from basic equipment and a large mirror. Simmons began to make his way to some mats in the far corner of the room.

“Take off your suit.”

Simmons froze.

Slowly, he looked to Wash.

Wash shut the door, apparently unabashed by his own comment. He met Simmons’ eyes.

Simmons dipped his chin. “What?”

“Take off your-- oh.” Wash closed his eyes and shook his head slightly. “That was not how I intended to… say that. I meant your-- the power armor. For the workout. We’ll train in our civilian clothes.”

Wash really was awkward. Holy shit. He looked embarrassed, the tips of his ears turning pink.

Simmons had to do something to break the tension.

He shifted his weight to his cyborg leg. “So… come here often?”

The comment resulted in the look of surprise migrating from his face to Wash's. Shit.

“Because you work out a lot. In rooms. Like this," he explained, feeling a heat creep up his neck. 

“Oh. Oh.” Wash cocked his head. “I do, yes.” He chuckled. “Right, uh.”

He started stripping down. Simmons would have laughed, but the situation was still on the edge of uncomfortable, which Simmons now officially blamed on Wash. That had been funny, goddammit. Okay, maybe not funny, but still. Fuck.

Wash was a bit more efficient than Simmons in getting off all the power armor, but to be fair, Simmons had been shot. Taking off the suit was somehow more painful than putting it on had been, and he was currently pawing at his shoulder plate ineffectively.

Wash neatly tucked his armor in the corner of the room before strolling over to Simmons. “Here,” he said, grabbing the piece and easily pulling it off. His face was hovering mere inches from Simmons’ own as he kept his gaze trained on the suit, working his way through the parts with practiced ease.

“Uh, thanks,” Simmons said.

Wash finally looked up. His nose nearly collided with Simmons’ chin. He made a small, surprised sound and placed his palm flat against Simmons’ chest. Then he cleared his throat and took a half-step back, his hand falling shortly after. “Right. Let me know if you need any more help.”

Seeing as Simmons only had the armor on his legs to get through, he definitely wouldn’t be doing that. Still, he nodded, and Wash grabbed the already-shed armor from the floor to pack in the corner as well.

After Simmons removed the remaining pieces, he patted out the creases in his tank top. “Um, so what are we--”

“We can get out the mats first,” Wash said, scanning the stack. “Then we should probably start with some stretches.”

Simmons nodded, once again heading in that direction. He and Wash took them down, one by one, and spread them across a quarter of the room. “Since it’s just us,” Wash explained. “No need to put them all out.”

“Right. So, um, should I just--”

“Stick to the basics for now. Just do what I do, and I’ll help you out if you need it.”

Simmons' throat felt dry. “Right,” he said once more. God, he was an idiot. 

Wash didn't comment, instead just raising his brows to signal that he was starting before maneuvering into a side-bend stretch. Simmons, after a moment, carefully twisted to do the same. He mimicked Wash as he switched from one side to the next. Then he moved onto his quads, pulling a leg up to his back.

Wash easily balanced through the action, eyes studying Simmons as he tried to do the same. He started with his organic leg, not wanting to embarrass himself just yet. Thankfully, he only wavered a few times.

Before Wash switched to his other leg, he stepped up closer to Simmons. “Grab my shoulder,” he said, tapping Simmons’ right arm once. “It’ll help you balance on that leg easier.” Then he put his hand on Simmons’ opposite shoulder, grabbing his own leg to stretch it at the same time.

For a second, Simmons just stood there, taking in the closeness and Wash’s careful touch.

Then he reminded himself to stop acting stupid, and did as Wash said.

It did make balancing easier, though Simmons’ was still uncertain on his leg. Putting all his weight on something he couldn’t quite feel was always a precarious situation. He found himself thankful for Wash’s thoughtful gesture -- the fact that he’d actually considered Simmons’ situation was… nice. Yeah. Nice.

Wash dropped his leg then pulled his arm back. “Doing well so far,” he said with a grin.

Simmons immediately reacted with a tight smile, feeling the blush spreading across his cheeks. Shit.

They turned to the floor and continued through several more stretches, Wash occasionally offering small critiques and tips.

Then Wash leaned forward to touch his toes. Easy enough. Simmons did the same.

After several seconds, he felt a pressure on his back.

Automatically, he yelped, tensing and almost straightening his spine before Wash muttered a placid, “Easy there. It’s just me. I’m gonna help you bend forward more.”

Totally normal. Fuck. Okay. All was well. Nothing to-- to think about too long. The fact that Wash’s hand was a bit low on his back meant nothing-- it was just, uh, proper positioning?

“Aim to get your palms flat on the floor while keeping your knees straight.”

Simmons immediately followed the instructions, moving further with the warm pressure against him.

“Huh,” said Wash when Simmons actually managed it. “You’re pretty limber for taking four rounds to the shoulder.”

“Th- thanks,” Simmons stammered. He was making himself look like a moron. God fucking dammit.

Wash patted his back once and stepped back. Simmons took that as his cue to stand up. He stumbled, landing awkwardly on his cybernetic leg. Wash caught him by the arm, easily helping him stabilize.

“Uh, sorry, not used to the leg yet I guess-- different type of alloy, so it weighs slightly less.”

Wash nodded, his fingers still gripping Simmons’ bicep. “Yeah, we can work on some balance-related exercises later.” And Simmons may have imagined it, but Wash gave his arm a gentle squeeze before letting go. “Let’s runs some laps to loosen up.”

It made sense, of course. Running as part of a warm-up. But Wash was looking at him expectantly.

Simmons blinked before he nodded, then started jogging. Wash began shortly after.

It was odd, right? Wash was usually the one to lead during running drills, but instead he was lagging behind him. Was he making sure Simmons looked okay-- wasn’t… running strangely? Grif always told him he had a weird gait, but he really didn't want to hear that from Wash of all people.

So he glanced to the mirror just to see what, exactly, Wash was doing. 

Wash’s eyes were looking right at his ass.

Simmons looked back forward. 

Okay.

Hm.

It... had to be an accident. Wash was just spacing out or something.

Simmons took a deep breath and continued running. The room was fairly small, so he could just… check on the next lap.

So Simmons checked on the next lap.

And the one after that.

His own face was almost completely red despite his even breaths.

Holy shit. Holy shit. Was Wash checking him out? What the fuck. No way. That couldn’t be right. Simmons cleared his throat.

“Uh, how many laps are we doing?”

In the mirror, he saw Wash’s head snap up.

“Huh?” he said, obviously distracted. “S- sorry, what’d you say? How’s your leg holding up?”

Yeah, that didn't sound suspicious at all. Simmons pursed his lips, trying to hold back a bashful smile. “Uh, yeah. It’s… it’s good.”

“Huh,” said Wash, increasing his pace so he was next to him. “Guess you’re just starting to get a leg up on me.”

Automatically, Simmons rolled his eyes and stated plainly, “You’re a fucking idiot,” followed by a frantic, “Oh, fuck-- wait-- I didn't--”

Washed laughed, putting his hands on his waist as he slowed to a walk. “Don’t worry -- it’s true. Just don’t tell anyone,” he said. “Otherwise…” He dipped his chin and lifted a brow.

“Agent Washington,” Simmons droned, stopping completely, “are you threatening me?”

Wash shrugged. "Maybe, Captain Simmons." A smirk drew across his face. "If you're into that."

Simmons choked. He thumped a hand against his chest as Wash looked on, self-satisfaction mixing with concern. “Are you--”

“Okay!” Simmons interrupted. “I- I'm okay.”

“Okay enough to do some weights?” Wash pressed on.

“Um.” He flitted his gaze to the side before looking back at Wash. “Maybe? I'm not sure.” He frowned and rotated the new arm, shifting the muscles. Wash eyed the movement with acute intensity.

Simmons frowned. “Uhhh--”

Wash looked up and swallowed. “We can start with something small. Work our way up. Get you used to it.”

He sounded… off.

Simmons gave him a thumbs up. Then regretted giving him a thumbs up. “Yeah, uh, let’s do that.”

Wash turned on his heel to grab a weight. “Let's start with some bicep curls, get you used to the feel and mechanics of your arm.” He picked one up, testing its weight for a moment before replacing it for a slightly smaller one. “Ten pounds,” Wash stated, walking closer to offer it to him.

Simmons reached out, only to remember the door-handle incident. He hesitated.

Wash released a small laugh. “Here,” he said, using his other hand to grab Simmons’ and guide it over. His touch was featherlight, careful.

Something in his chest skipped. He blamed it on the cybernetics as he let Wash lead him to the weight, only releasing his hold once it was in Simmons’ grip.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Wash replied.

Bicep curls were objectively simple, and ten pounds was nothing compared to what he’d built up after years of training. That being said, this was a new arm. As he went to curl the weight, it dropped from his grasp. It wasn’t even from the weight itself -- it was his hold, his control over the fingers. Wash’s winced, looking sympathetic.

As Wash bent down to pick up the weight, Simmons said with a sigh, “Looks like this training has... gotten out of hand.”

Wash laughed; the sound unexpectedly bubbly, carefree. “Yeah, and my pun was bad.”

"Cut me some slack," Simmons defended. "I blame you-- you're rubbing off on me," he paused, before adding with a small smirk, "and not in the good way."

"And what 'good' way would you prefer me to rub off on you, Simmons?" Wash quickly countered.

"Wouldn't you like to know? You haven't even taken me out to dinner, Wash," Simmons responded without missing a beat as his smirk widened into a full-on grin.

It dawned on Simmons that their interactions had become a lot more comfortable than he initially realized. Their stupid puns, the fake "bro-flirting"-- when did this start coming so easily to them? And why was it so enjoyable and not completely fucking awkward?

Wash lifted his hands. “Fair enough.” He held out the weight to Simmons again. “You’ve got this.”

This time, when Simmons reached to grab the weight, Wash didn't help him. He managed, the mechanics releasing a soft whir as he took it. As he performed the bicep curls under Wash’s watchful eyes, he didn't drop the weight.

They progressed the weight higher and higher until eventually Wash decided, “I think you’re ready to try some deadlifts. It’ll incorporate your natural arm, too, so that should be good.”

Deadlifts. Okay. Easy. He nodded, and Wash began setting up, putting him over one of the mats and placing out the bar and weights. “You seem to already be getting pretty used to it,” Wash continued, angling his head at Simmons’ arm. “All things considered, that’s impressive.”

Why did Wash keep complimenting him? Fuck. He should say something back, anything.

“Not as impressive as you.”

Did he just.

He hadn’t fucking hesitated. For all intents and purposes, it came out sounding fucking smooth. 

Wash’s face was unreadable before his lips drew out in a slow smile. “I’m… kind of thirsty.”

Seriously, what the fuck was happening, and why the fuck did Simmons find himself enjoying it?

“I’m gonna grab some water real quick,” Wash added, the smile turning mischievous. “I’ll spot you in a sec. You can figure out what weight you want to use. Not too much, though.”

“I’ll… do that. Yeah.”

Simmons began throwing on the weights as soon as Wash turned, apparently going outside to pick up an actual bottle. He could… practice his stance. Just so he wouldn’t look stupid in front of Wash. No other ulterior motives. 

He slid 400 pounds onto the bar. He was fairly certain the bar itself was 45 pounds, so this… definitely wasn’t bad. It was less than he was used to, but still. Adjustment period and all that.

(So what if he’d normally start off with even less after a surgery and limb replacement? No need to overthink it.)

Simmons’ back was to the door as he squatted down and laced his fingers around the bar before securing his grip and taking a breath. Just to practice his stance.

He rose with the weight. It was actually really easy. He lingered there for several seconds, weight easily balanced between his hands. May as well take it up a notch.

Simmons shifted his footing slightly before transitioning from the deadlift to a clean press, hefting the bar up to his chest.

There was a soft click.

His arm froze.

“Um."

He tried moving it.

It was locked.

Oh. Shit. Shit.

That was apparently enough to startle him into falling back slightly, pressing the weight deeper against his sternum. Pain laced across his injured shoulder, and he winced, trying to adjust his hold further to take some of the weight off of it.

The bar wedged deeper into his chest. He tried to gasp, but the breath felt like it was coming through a narrow straw and--

There was a soft, “Shit,” behind him, the sound of things dropping, and then--

And then a warm body was pressed flush against his back, lining him inch by inch. Arms wrapped around Simmons’ own before suddenly some of the weight was lifted. Wash’s face was pressed against Simmons’ neck, his breaths hitting him in warm pants.

The rest of Simmons’ body froze at this. “H-uh-- hm.”

Wash grunted, and the weight lifted even further, giving him room to both breathe properly and shift his stance. “What the hell?” Wash said, strain still evident in his voice. “How much is on here? Are those all 50s?”

Simmons gave himself a second to respond before he made another incomprehensible noise. “I, uh, normally do 600,” he stated. 

There was another one of those brief silences. Neither of them were moving -- Simmons was incapable of putting the bar down with his arm still stuck, and Wash probably didn't want to let go and put all the weight back on Simmons’ chest once more.

“So…” Wash started, his voice low, muttering directly into Simmons ear, causing the hair on his neck to raise. “Come here often?”

Simmons tilted his head, eyes turning to the mirror. He could see Wash, face nuzzling the opposite side of his neck, arms tense with the effort of keeping the awkward hold.

“If I did, I wouldn’t need you to catch my weights for me.”

Wash huffed, and Simmons suppressed a shiver. “I technically didn't catch anything. You’re still holding most of the weight. Uh, speaking of which--”

“My arm’s stuck,” Simmons interrupted. His tone came out just as annoyed as he felt. He cleared his throat. “Something hitched. I can’t move it.”

He could feel Wash swallow. “Right. I’ll, uh-- hm. Do you think you can--”

The door flew open. “Wash! I heard you were in-- what the fuck?” Tucker scrambled in front of them, eyeing Wash’s position against Simmons in earnest, taking in the latter’s expression. “This doesn’t happen in my one-on-ones-- this is bullshit!”

“It’s-- I’m--!” Simmons sputtered.

“Can you help him drop the bar?” said Wash, picking his head up to look over Simmons’ shoulder. “His arm’s stuck.”

Tucker blinked. “Are you-- are you serious? How much weight is that? I can’t--”

“Just. Do it,” Wash interrupted, gritting his teeth.

Tucker made an exasperated noise. “Fine,” he spat. He stepped forward, unsteadily grabbing the bar and trying to lift. It didn't budge.

“Really, Tucker?” said Wash. “Simmons managed to--”

Tucker scoffed. “Shuddup! This nerd couldn’t--”

Simmons lifted his organic arm, trying to maneuver the bar over his cybernetic one.

“What!” said Tucker.

Wash snorted and started lifting, and Tucker tried again in earnest, actually managing to help this time around.

“Here, uh,” said Wash, trading his weight to his left foot. “You can’t move your fingers, can you?”

Simmons couldn't speak, for some reason, so he shook his head rapidly.

“Okay. Let’s try and tilt the bar so it’ll… maybe slide from your grasp a bit? That way we’re working with a bit less weight. It’ll put more on your cybernetic arm, but--”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Simmons said in a rush.

“Yeah,” Tucker said, wheezing slightly through his sarcasm, “400 pounds on one arm. Easy-peasy.”

Simmons shot him a glare, but didn't bother correcting him. With a bit more effort, the three managed to shift the weight so the bar’s center was in the palm of his cybernetic hand.

“‘Kay,” said Tucker. “Y’know, Wash, you don’t have to keep clinging to Simmons like that.”

Simmons could feel Wash’s chest intake a tad faster than normal. Then, silently, he pulled away, releasing his hold on the bar.

It immediately dropped to the floor with a resounding clang, and a convulsion ran from his cybernetic arm, now swaying flat against his side, useless, through his neck. He worked it out with a tight spasm and a wince.

“Okay!” Wash said, his voice going a bit high, “I-- think that’s enough. For today. Grey should probably look at your arm.”

Simmons could still feel latent heat from Wash against his back. The cool air flushing against the back of his neck was almost disconcerting by comparison. “Uh, right.” Fuck, that was embarrassing. They’d barely managed anything, and he was already indisposed.

“Tucker, do you mind packing everything up so I can bring him to the med bay? Unless you had something urgent to tell me.”

Tucker wrinkled his nose. “Dude, are you seriously gonna make me do your bitch work?”

Wash gave him a look, causing Tucker to roll his eyes. "Yeah, whatever. I’ll do it. Asshole."

Simmons couldn’t even help with the fucking cleanup. He sighed.

Wash seemed to read his concern, putting a hand on his shoulder as they walked out the door, away from the sound of clanking weights and Tucker's grumbling.

"Hey, don't worry about it much. Day one of a completely new appendage-- can't really expect everything to be perfect," Wash offered sympathetically.

Simmons sighed for what felt like the hundredth time that morning. He gave Wash a sidelong glance. "Sorry I'm being such a... sigh-borg today."

Wash turned his head to stare blankly at Simmons, tilting it to the side questioningly.

"Oh, like, SIGH-borg, 'cause I keep-- nevermind," Simmons stopped explaining, blushing because his joke was so fucking lame that not even Wash understood it.

"Oh, oh-- I get it," Wash laughed softly after the wordplay clicked. "Sorry, it's funny, it just doesn't make sense as quickly unless I were reading it or something--"

"Simmons? Uh... everything alright?"

Grif turned the corner of a perpendicular hallway coming from the canteen, hands full of MREs and miscellaneous snack bars. Simmons noticed Grif's eyes narrow, focused between himself and Wash. This made Simmons realize Wash's hand was still gently gripping his shoulder. And realizing this also made him realize the grip tightened for a fraction of a second when Grif spoke.

"Oh, yeah-- uh, y'know, new arm kinda acted up and--"

"He'll be fine, Captain Grif," Wash sharply interrupted. "I was escorting Simmons to the medbay."

"Wow," started Grif with sarcastic amazement, eyes still locked on Wash's hand, "No 'Captain' for Simmons? You two must be pretty chummy."

Simmons blinked at Grif. He always made stupid remarks, but, not ones that seemed... jealous? Oh man. There's no way Grif was jealous of Simmons. Well, Grif probably didn't like being called Captain all the time and wished for something more casual, but he didn't have to use petty comments to make his point.

Simmons felt the warmth leave his shoulder, only to be reinstated on his hip as Wash looped his arm around him.

"You said it, Captain Grif, not me." Wash leered at Grif smugly, pointing his nose upward.

Both Grif and Simmons' Dutch-Irish skin instantly flushed, and Grif's jaw dropped slightly.

"If you'll excuse us," Wash said before he could respond, pulling Simmons forward to depart down the hall.

Simmons shared a strange look with Grif as they passed each other; a raised eyebrow, a concerned frown. This-- the whole joke-flirting thing, it was funny, right? Grif, uh, Grif would totally know that it was a joke, yeah. But why didn't it make him feel as entertained when Wash pulled the same completely not-serious coquetry in front of Grif?

"Hey, Simmons," Grif called out from behind them, tone somewhere between annoyed and anxious, "You better save your snack bars when I swing by later."

Simmons opened his mouth to respond, but Wash interjected before he could finish the intake of his breath, not even bothering to look back. "Looks like you have enough to last you for the night. Plus, we have plans this evening."

"W-we do?" What? When did they have plans? And why was Wash being so dismissive to Grif? Was he still mad about him skipping training the other day? And why did he have to be in the middle of all of this?

Wash let out an amused huff as they approached the medical wing, releasing his grip from Simmons' hip to rest back at his own side. "No, I just wanted to mess with him. I mean, unless you wanted to have plans. Like you said earlier, I haven't taken you out to dinner yet."

Okay-- couple of questions here. First off, why would that mess with Grif? Secondly, was Wash being serious? No, of course not, he was just, uh, on a roll with his joke flirting, didn't miss a beat. Freelancers are really focused, huh. Yeah.

So, not wanting to make the situation any more awkward than it was, because obviously that would happen if Simmons didn't flirt back, he suggested, "How about I take you instead? My treat. We can share off of my hospital food tray like kids in grade school. Very romantic, I know."

Wash smiled. A shimmer flickered across his eyes. "That... sounds nice. I think I'd like that."

That was... unexpectedly sincere. But. That's because Wash was so committed to their newfound dynamic. Y'know. Being a serious and disciplined guy and all. Yeah. Haha. Uh. Okay. No need to think about-- uh, he can just ignore the funny feelings going on. In his chest right now.

"So!" Simmons squeaked out a few pitches higher than he would have preferred. "Uhhh--"

Grey stepped from the ward just as Simmons as a means of interruption, chatting up Sarge of all people, “--but you certainly are right! They truly don’t make those like they used to.” Was… was that a wink she gave Sarge?

Sarge chuckled, the corners of his mouth lifting in an unadulterated smile. “No, Ms. Grey-- they truly don’t!”

“Dr. Grey,” Wash said, suddenly standing sharp and tall, his tone turning diplomatic. “Captain Simmons could use some assistance with his new arm. There appeared to be a… hitch. Somewhere.”

Grey’s face went through a flurry of emotions before settling on an obviously-fake pleased. “Oh!”

Sarge promptly excused himself. Grey went on as though she hadn’t noticed.

“I do suppose Sarge and I were a bit distracted, though my work has always been perfect before, even with such distractions! I’ll be happy to take a look.” Her eyes snapped to Simmons. “Go ahead and step into your room. I’m sure Agent Washington will be happy to retrieve your armor from wherever it’s presently stashed. We are still at war and under near-constant attack, after all!”

Simmons glanced over just in time to see Wash flinch. “Uh, right,” said Wash, the cool exterior slipping. “I was…”

“Busy thinking about other things?” Grey supplied helpfully.

Simmons frowned as Wash blushed and glared -- only minutely -- at Grey. He had been distracted, seeing as Simmons had gotten himself injured. So what was that all about?

Still, Grey had given him an order.

He wasn’t sure why, exactly, he felt the need to pat Wash on the arm before heading over to his room.

He also wasn’t sure why, exactly, such a mundane action left him smiling like a fool right until he’d settled back onto his bed.


End file.
